


Sick, Actually

by coreoftheabyss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:03:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coreoftheabyss/pseuds/coreoftheabyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My person for Miserables Holidays is MamzelleCombeferre, and she requested for a Combeferre sick!fic.</p>
<p>Prompt: I have a thing for sickfic, and would love something where Combeferre gets really sick and someone (preferably Enjolras, Joly, and Feuilly) has to take care of him. My Combeferre is an awful patient, and will eventually listen to reason, but might be pretty grumpy nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick, Actually

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MamzelleCombeferre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamzelleCombeferre/gifts).



                   Combeferre knew it was going to be a bad day from the moment his brain told him he was awake. The first thing he noticed was his stuffy nose, which was always a pain. He sighed and opened his eyes. Stuffy noses would never clear artificially, no matter what any remedy claimed. Meanwhile, a lovely headache had started drumming its way all over the lanky student’s brain, another classic annoyance. But nonetheless, he awoke and refused to acknowledge that he might have indeed caught a cold. An important exam was scheduled on the particular day, and Combeferre did not want to go through the tedious procedure of making it up. Stumbling to his closet, he donned his signature combo of khakis and a button-down, but even though the clothes sufficed yesterday, today, they left him feeling a bit chilly. So the messy-haired brunette did the one thing he swore never to ever do, and pulled on a warm cotton sweater. Already regretting his decision, the student headed out, grimacing as he pictured all the inevitable scenarios of his classmate accidentally mistaking him for the teacher.

 

***

 

                   “Combeferre…Earth to Combeferre!”

 

                   Combeferre startled to attention, his eyes first focusing on the hands waving in front of him. Then, remembering that he was in his AP Gov class, he quickly glanced down at his notes, hoping that he had taken enough to answer the teacher’s question. A stark blank page greeted him.

 

                   “Combeferre?” someone intoned again, but this time, his name sounded more like a question. Slowly, he realized that it was not the teacher who was demanding his attention, but one of his friends. Embarrassed, he awkwardly readjusted his glasses, and then looked up properly. Instead of finding his energetic friend, Courfeyrac, in front of him, Combeferre was surprised to find a concerned-looking Enjolras. Combeferre sighed. It seemed like he was in for a lecture anyways. “Yes, Enjolras?” he asked, “What’s the matter?”

 

                   “Are you alright?” questioned the blond man. “Maybe you would like to take today off? Go home and sleep a bit, I mean…”

 

                   “Well, remember that time—”

 

                   “Yes, I know; that’s rich coming from me,” the blond hurriedly injected, with a slight blush. “But Combeferre, you’re rarely sick. This actually worries me a lot.”

 

                   It was true that Enjolras did indeed look very distraught, which made Combeferre feel a bit guilty. But he had already dragged himself to school, and it would be a pain to get permission to leave early. “I’ll be alright, Ange.” Enjolras did not even bat an eye at the use of the hated nickname, which alarmed the brunette to the level of his friend’s distress. Combeferre smiled, or at least made an effort to, trying to reassure his friend, but the blond did not look convinced at all. Luckily, the bell rang just in time, and Combeferre rushed off to his discreet math class, a class Enjolras avoided like the plague.

 

***

 

                   “Why are you still here?”

 

                   Combeferre groaned. He really did not want to deal with this. As soon as he walked through the door, his friend, Feuilly, a brilliant artist, and an equally brilliant mathematician, had accosted him.

 

                   “Did Enjolras text you?”

 

                   Feuilly simply nodded, his face, grim.

 

                   “Test today. I’m not leaving. Besides, it’s last period. I just have to get through this test.” Combeferre took of his glasses and wiped them on the tail of the shirt, the equivalent of him fidgeting. He was almost pleading. The younger man was usually very good at silently scolding, but with his pounding headache, Combeferre simply did not have the energy to properly justify himself or fend off his friend.

 

                   The artist quietly gauged the sandy-haired man, noting his nerves and his tired, watery eyes, and then muttered “Okay.” Clearly, he was not happy, but Combeferre could see that Feuilly’s eyes had softened. When the math teacher finally appeared, Combeferre could have shouted with joy. He could not wait to finish the day, the test be damned.

 

***

 

                   “So, how did you think you did?”

 

                   The bell had rung, signaling that the day was done. Now that he did not have a major test on his shoulders, Combeferre felt the exhausting from his cold steeping in.

 

                   “Probably a B? B+ if I’m lucky.”

 

                   Feuilly laughed, and it was a good thing for Combeferre to hear. He had thought the sturdy man would still be irked at him, but luckily, his confidence about his test results had put him in a good mood.

 

                   “That’s a lie, Combeferre, and you know it. Even if you had pneumonia, which I really hope you don’t, you would still get an A.”

 

                   “Please don’t jinx me,” Combeferre whimpered, true fear in his eyes. Feuilly chuckled some more.

 

                   “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I’m sure you can’t catch pneumonia, not with Joly doctoring you. And like I said, Mr. “I passed AP Calculus BC two years before everyone else with honors,” I don’t think you can get lower than a 90.”

 

                   This made the tall brunette stop in his tracks. “Joly? Come again?”

 

                   “Come on, you didn’t think we’d let you off the hook if you gave us a few teary-eyed looks, did you?”

 

                   Combeferre groaned. This was going to be a long night.

 

 

***

 

                   “Combeferre!” Joly greeted him, “I heard you were sick.” Only Joly could produce such a cheerful tone of voice with such a fearful look on his face, Combeferre mused.

 

                   “It would seem that I have acquired a cold, unfortunately. In other words, yes; yes, I am.”

 

                   “Good!” a voice shouted from the kitchen. _His_ kitchen. Combeferre frowned, and shot a look at Joly.

 

                   “Sorry, Bossu—”

 

                   Promptly, the sound of some dishware clanking against the ground, and the sharp exclamation of “ _Bossuet!_ ” was heard. Amusingly, Combeferre thought that it was fitting that Bossuet always followed Joly around. Indeed, the bird does not fly too far from the nest.

 

                   Surprisingly, Grantaire’s scruffy face also appeared from his kitchen entrance. “Sorry about that,” the unkempt man was saying, looking sheepish. “Joly told us you were sick, so I thought I would make you some soup. Bossuet offered to help, and… well, you know how it is with our Eagle. I promise I’ll be quieter. I promise to get the others to be quiet, too.”

 

                   “Wait, the others?” mumbled the brunette, running a hand through his sandy hair, as if trying to sift the confusion out of his thoughts. “Why did you tell them? I mean, I just have a cold. I’ll be fine.”

 

                   “Hush, Combeferre, it’s almost Christmas. Of course we’re not going to let you be sick alone.”

 

                   “What lovely words your mouth can produce. So it’s not just all cynic and alcohol in there?” Combeferre snarked. He wasn’t sure why those words came out; maybe he was too tired, or too sick, or, if he were truthful to himself, too happily, but Grantaire took it in stride.

 

                   Chuckling and wagging his eyebrows, Grantaire proclaimed: “I’ll have you know that I happen to be very good friends with our local poet. Stick around and maybe you’ll see what other wonders this mouth can produce.”

 

                   “Enough of that,” Joly scolded, “and finish the soup, Grantaire! Make sure it doesn’t burn!” Turning to Combeferre, and giving the bespectacled student a long look, he said “And you, Combeferre, you really need to sleep now. I’ve already put a cup of water and some Tylenol on your dresser.” Obediently, Combeferre climbed up the stairs and walked into his bedroom, where he changed into pajamas and took the medicine Joly had set out.

 

***

  
                   Somewhere off in the distance, but definitely getting closer to his house, he heard the other members of their little group, especially Barohel’s loud and delightful laugh. He could imagine how Enjolras and Feuilly would passionately debate as they walked, forgetting that they were on a public street, and how Jehan  would smirk at Courfeyrac as the attractive man retold the story of an amusing tryst. Soon, his imaginings turned into dreams as he fell asleep, wondering what surprises awaited him when he woke up. Knowing his friends, there would always be something, but for now, Combeferre was content, and certain that he was already recovering.

 


End file.
